Spring has come again
by owlcat123
Summary: 'What are we waiting for? I'm waiting for wet green grass, the sweet smell of fresh hay, the gentle perfume of cherry blossoms sweeping into the night air and a golden yellow sun; rich as egg yolk painted on the eastern horizons. Silver is second best.' Based on the myth of the Pleiades, Maia, the eldest of the sisters returns to Narnia during the arrival of the Pevensie children.
1. Prologue (first edit)

**Author's note:**

**for the next week or so, I will be in the process of editing what is currently published and I won't be updating chapter one until after Christmas, sorry about that :)**

My earliest memories do not exist the same way yours do. My life holds no recognisable patterns or cycles, time means little to me; the start, the middle, the end. They all look the same.

Maybe I do have first memories but I have been here too long to remember which they are. What I know now, I have not always known; but it is too late to remember not knowing them. Thoughts and life are things separate from one another when I look back. And even if I could trace the links between imaginary and real, I learn far too slowly to gain any real sense of order. These in between times was just what it was like in the before, knowing things without knowing how you knew them…like recognising an old fairy-tale but not knowing who read it to you.

Comfort can be found in that, just as it can be found in the idea that life will go on without you when you're gone, at least that is what I used to think; before we got here.

The moonlit world below us hangs in the air as though it were some great pearl hidden in the depths of an oyster; tantalisingly close, but out of reach. The soft shimmering surface of Narnia is white, always white. If only we could touch it, colours would whirl into life shinning brilliantly in the dark; but here we are. All time frozen solid, it is cold up here.

It never used to be. There was no feeling, only a calm acceptance, we were impassive and untouched now it has reversed. No-one wants to live forever, it is far better to be dead because at least you wouldn't know it. If knowledge is power…understanding is pain.

What are we waiting for? I'm waiting for wet green grass, the sweet smell of fresh hay, the gentle perfume of cherry blossoms sweeping into the night air and a golden yellow sun; rich as egg yolk painted on the eastern horizons. Silver is second best.

The world is dark and hard to see. Thick grey clouds come sometimes form intricate walls between us and them; why? The darkness and the blue haze of day are division enough. Slowly the winter's grey sun wilts, fading into a shrivelled old seed. It's far away, and receding rapidly in the wake of the moon. The pure colour of it is a relief; for even our own faces are hidden in the luminous blue which melts like fog used to on a summer morning. A scolded child, it will go off a sulk for a short time; and we will bask in this reprieve.

When the shadows fall, all life retreats with them; as though they're afraid of us, afraid of us looking of seeing them. All accept the shameless trees, and a few brave old owls; they remember, they remember the colours of autumn and the fresh sprouts of spring when all Narnians danced through the night. There was laughing and singing around makeshift fires, gone by morning; but not now, we are the only ones left to what this quiet world.

There it is, the lamppost, can you see it? I can, it's over there. Amidst the tall western pines, that tiny flickering light. Always, always it's been there; since the beginning of the world. There are curling branches of iron cradling the flame, the light caught in millions of diamond facets in the snow. Too many to count, too many colours to describe.

A sleepy wee light, frost laces the glass around it; a pair of grimy spectacles, a pairing of fluttering eye lashes. This is the centre of Narnia, the beating heart. Everything, every living creature it calls to.

The trees sway a gentle counter rhythm to its beat, stretching out greedy finger; brittle with the long wait in the cold. I am too. Brittle, as if at any moment the tenuous sanity I've built will shatter like glass. The light will be too bright to look at then, my eyes have adjusted well to the dark.

I'm sure that if we were but an inch closer, I'd see the delicate dust motes; spinning and waving their arms wildly about, as they dance around it. Fauns, dryads even the southern red dwarf joined the merrymaking around camp fire in the before. Seasons never mattered, exclusive to only the very old and very young; they all danced. Maybe this time it is worse? The winter chill seeping further than flesh and bone…never, not once have I been there during the height of ice and snow; how cold can the air be? How strong is the tang of frozen decay? Don't ask me. None of us up here know. Though I'm sure there is someone else who does, they never come though; hiding in the edge of shadows just out of sight. Someone I know.

The shadows shift and rustle to reveal the pointy red face of a faun gradually emerging. He peers about a moment, and then steals into the pool of light; a crimson scarf and curly tail streaming behind him. Cloven feet crunch into the solid white, I can barely imagine the sound, will there be a slight slushing pop as each ankle is pulled free? He is perhaps a tad small to be fully grown, and a little lacking in beard. Night blue eyes scour the tree tops, driving sharper needles into the boughs. They shine in the lamp light; contrary to the wary expression that darkens his face. The colour shifts as they settle on me, a tremulous midnight blue; an already ruddy face flushes. He knows, I'm sure he knows. Fine lashes of ginger drift down catching snowflakes and his head droops like snowdrops do at the arrival of spring. Those eyes settle on some point in between the pines, he doesn't look up again and slowly the blue glazes over and his hand slides off the freshly cleaned metal.

The dark green looks better now, another precious colour in a field of black and blue.

Too soon he is gone. Just gone, and I didn't notice when he left; the moon went with him and before long the sun will rise again.

Gone and I didn't even notice.

It was at that point the cold reach me again, it caressed my face with dead fingers and slipped by me faster and faster. My feet dangling above the frozen peaks of the westdael beorgas


	2. Chapter 1 (first part, no edit)

It is cold here, I'm cold, colder than I've ever been. Every single shard of ice digs into my skin, drumming pink tattoos onto my face and hands, the darkness of an approaching storm crushes its soft underside against the mountain. The valleys of rock and stone gasp and howl in pain, peaks forcing themselves to pierce the great clouds above, as luminous white waves thrashed violently below. I felt as though I was falling through the air again, tossed like a ragdoll the torrent of snow; once in a while the weight would leave me and my lung would snatch at the ragged breath of Westdael Beorg.

Cold, so very cold.

It took some time before I realised I was no longer moving, the world spun around me and the contents of my stomach attempted to escape my throat.

There, a light, I saw it. White, streaking into a great horizontal line. My arms and legs were heavy, sore, they sunk into the snow with each movement. Then they stopped sinking. Fingers too numb to feel what it was. Eyes too blind to see; I gathered that it was flat, unnaturally flat. A frozen lake? No, uneven hard ridges rose and fell on the surface. A river.

I managed to sit upright, using the white line as a compass; I found my feet again. It was growing. The light.

The eastern seas, the horizon…daybreak.

I couldn't move, my feet struck snow; but even over the sound of the whistling winds the sound of a distant thud of snow on ice was unmistakable.

Cauldron pool falls. The only falls in the western ranges, the steepest in all of Narnia…the drop is meant to be very sudden. The ice slops down towards where the edge lies, I noticed sitting down, vertigo returning. And quite smooth, slippery. There is no purchase here either. Numb fingers curl into fists as they search for something to grab onto, only snow and ice. There'll be snow and ice below too, I know I'm falling but I can't feel the moaning winds anymore. I'm separate from it, frozen on the surface just like the river.

"Oomph" wet crystals burst through my mouth, doing their best to take my teeth with them. The sound was muffled but I could feel the vibrations in my throat; the snow stung on the way down, I swallowed a lot of it. Struggling to the surface I became aware of one thing. A familiar yellow glow streamed into my eyes, broken in segments by the shadowing trees. I followed it.

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A gentle sigh, flitted through the western woodlands, leaping through branches extended in welcome to the morning light, rosy grey clouds crowed the sun. Its gaze held a weak, half-hearted warmth; like that of an elderly relative regarding laughing grandchildren through closing eyes. The lamppost winked through the pines and the snow crackled beneath soft boot leather, once brown now white with the powder beneath them. I had expected everything to have its usual immediacy but I all seemed as distant as it did from the sky. Had my eyes not adjusted yet? Had my ears been filled with snow?

Fine white lines shimmering with incredible iridescence strung upon delicate twigs, a snowflake drifting down from the pale sky, encrusted with morning diamonds, protruding arms of dark green flavoured with the sharp tang of pine wood. It all jumped in and out of place blurring together and sharpening with blinding clarity. Dark metal, dull and tall with curling vines that stretched around the sun…no not the sun…a lamp. White snow, and a flash of shinning clear black. A wet nose, soft brown fur, thick brown fur; more snow, no white fabric. And a voice.

The pressure in my ears popped and the ground lurched forward.

"Lucy? Miss Lucy Pevensie?"

_No, _"No, Maia" that was my voice, I definitely heard it

The first voice said something else, and then a small paw, brown again settled on my own. Warm, it was warm. Unbelievably warm, blissfully hot; scalding my skin. Turning it pink, igniting the blood that had thickened to a stop. Without another thought I followed it.


End file.
